


Jealousy

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Gotg Prompt Fic [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, just as it says on the tin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The word ‘jealousy’ is not in Kraglin’s dictionary. Neither is any other word in the Xandarian vernacular, as Kraglin does not, in fact, own a dictionary. However he likes to think that if he did, ‘jealousy’ would not be in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

> **The first prompt wot I ever got~ :3**

The word ‘jealousy’ is not in Kraglin’s dictionary. Neither is any other word in the Xandarian vernacular, as Kraglin does not, in fact, own a dictionary. However he likes to think that if he did, ‘jealousy’ would not be in it. 

So he isn’t jealous when Yondu leers at the more nubile of their clients. Or when he flirts shamelessly with pretty much anything that walks on two legs and breathes air – and a few that don’t. Or ogles the ass of the uppity young Nova boy who tries to arrest him out on Stratohex, then wolf-whistles for the sole purpose of seeing how high he can make him jump. He’s also not jealous right now, as a whore sidles up to Yondu – currently brooding on a stool in a Knowhere bar amid a gaggle of soberer-than-they’re-acting Ravagers, waiting for his contact to arrive – and trails her fingers the length of his implant, before sliding slinkily into his lap. 

He’s equally not jealous when Yondu says her name with an evident degree of familiarity, even a little pleasure – “Hey, Croma! How’s life, girl?” – and slaps her ass hard enough to make her boobs shake. 

Although damn it, he’s standing _right there_. At Yondu’s right hand. A gaunt white-and-red spectre at the military at-ease, face poker-straight and staring determinedly at the wall as Yondu squeezes the meat of the girl’s thighs and licks her between the collarbones, making her squeal like a stuck pig. The other Ravagers whoop and holler. Some grab their own whores and some their drinks, but none each other. 

And Kraglin? Kraglin feels himself slipping further and further into the background. He’s not even a fly on the wall. He’s a shadow. Without Yondu’s gaze on him, he’s practically fading away – and if that isn’t sad and unhealthy and all kinds of pathetic, he doesn’t know what is. 

The contact arrives. Yondu doesn’t dislodge Croma: just shunts her to one side of his lap, legs settled sideways, and lets her simper and coo and suck on the stud threaded through his left earlobe. Kraglin should lean over. He should mutter that she could be a potential security breach and that Yondu should toss her out the nearest window. Possibly even shoot her, just to make sure. How’re they to know if she’s gonna run off to the nearest Horde bunker as soon as they’ve left dock? But Yondu’s nowhere near drunk enough to excuse Kraglin for questioning him in front of others, and Kraglin doesn’t fancy spending the rest of the month in the brig. 

He glowers at Croma’s spiny black head. She ain’t worth it, he decides. 

And alright, somewhere deep down he knows it ain’t her fault. She’s a respectable young woman working the oldest of professions. In all honesty, _she’s_ not the one he’s angry at - but it’s so much _easier_. Kraglin can’t be mad at Yondu. Not openly, and not in private. Because the captain’s made it clear – painfully so – that whatever it is they’re doing, it’s not a relationship. None of the rules apply. No need for comfort or other small shared intimacies. No anniversaries, no gifts beyond an extra off-shift when he needs one and free access to Yondu’s stash of moonshine. Certainly no public displays of affection. And apparently, no exclusivity either. 

Sure, Kraglin’s the most regular of those who fuck or get fucked on the captain’s bed. And he thinks (a small part of him even hopes) that he’s the only one who gets to do the former. But there’s always limits. So many limits. And if he ever forgets them, it’s a threat through bared teeth and a menacing whistle. 

Kraglin turns his foot to stretch the hamstring, stiffening from standing still so long. He counts the rivets in the wall as Croma’s ministrations become a little too distracting. Yondu detaches her with a jig of his knee and a shake. She backs off immediately – is rewarded with another pat to the rump, gentler this time. Hips swaying, she stands and drapes herself primly over his shoulders instead. 

The contact doesn’t spare her a glance. Negotiations continue in a hushed husk, the other Ravagers forming a wall that, with their strategically tipsy boisterousness, is as effective as soundproof glass and a helluva lot less friendly to eavesdroppers. 

Kraglin could join them. Or he could stand next to Croma as she rests her elbows on either side of Yondu’s head and blows warm air across his implant just the way he likes. 

Fifteen rivets on that panel. Or was it sixteen? Kraglin swears to himself, and starts again. 

He’s not jealous. Not even when business concludes with a handshake and Yondu’s toothy grin – Croma is pulled forwards as he leans to clasp the contact’s forearm, her arms wound serpentlike around his neck. Yondu heaves her sideways over her shoulders before nodding the contact farewell and standing. 

Eight rivets. Nine. 

Croma giggles like a girl half her age. 

Ten, eleven, twelve… 

“You lot!” Yondu roars, over the general hubbub caused by twelve Ravagers and an unlimited supply of beer. Everyone immediately quiets. Thrabba, noticing his cargo, waggles his eyebrows at Kraglin; Morlug, who isn’t as oblivious, blinks placidly at him with her remaining eye. Kraglin shrugs. What’s there to do? Yondu’s not tameable; put a collar on him and he’d break his own neck getting out of it, just for the pleasure of watching it snap. If it was up to Kraglin, how they defined their… whatever-it-was, it would be different. But it’s not up to him, is it? “Look after yerselves for the night, would ya? I’m going to bed!” 

With that announcement, Yondu spins so Croma can give the crowd a cheery wave. There’s a ripple of approval. 

“Nice one, captain!” Thrabba yells, pounding on the table. Perhaps he _is_ as drunk as she looks. Morlug, crammed into the dwindling space between him and the wall, doesn’t say anything – although that doesn’t imply much, when you’re no longer in possession of a functioning tongue. Kraglin keeps to his place and decides that it is sixteen rivets after all as the Ravagers return to their drinks. He moves onto the next panel. Then realizes that Yondu hasn’t left yet. 

“You need something, sir?” he asks, keeping his tone careless. Although fuck, if Yondu asks to borrow the lube that he knows Kraglin keeps stashed in his inner breast pocket, he cannot be held responsible for his actions. 

Yondu spares a glance for the other Ravagers. Croma checks his blind spot – “You’re good,” she whispers in his ear. Then he leans in and says, blunt as ever – 

“Yeah. You.” 

Oh. Kraglin gapes at him – then remembers that’s not the most conspicuous of expressions, and schools it into automaton blandness. Does he mean…? Surely not. Kraglin barely dares hope. 

“You messing with me?” 

Yondu grins. “Now, when do I ever do that? Hurry up, wouldya? My back’s gettin’ sore.” 

“Old age,” says Croma immediately. 

“Or you’ve put on weight,” Yondu retorts. He’s smiling as he says it though, warm and relaxed, words stripped of anything but tease. Kraglin’s gotten the invitation, but it still feels like he’s intruding. He licks his chapped lips and studies the grime clumped in the grouting around his boot soles. 

“You sure ya want me with you? I mean. You two can go off and have your fun. If you want. Not that you need my permission, or nothing…” 

“Damn right I don’t,” Yondu interrupts. “Which also means that if I say I’m in the mood for havin’ both of ya, I _mean_ it.” 

He does, at that. Kraglin tries out a small, tentative smile for size, and discovers that it not only fits perfectly but finds the fuel to grow. “Yes sir,” he says. Tosses in a salute, just to make Croma titter. 

Morlug’s the only one paying attention as they file out, Kraglin hanging back a minute to be on the safe side. When he catches her watching, one foot on the threshold, she winks at him - or possibly just blinks - and turns away.

**Author's Note:**

> **Aw. I love prodding these idjits through relationship dynamics. Leave me comment-y love if you're enjoying these!**


End file.
